I went to a wedding in Solvang last night. The drive took about four hours. We made it to the vineyard just in time for the short and perfect ceremony and the beautiful reception. Delicious wine. A little too delicious. I'm feeling it this morning.
Our plan was to cram a bunch of people into a hotel room for the night then drive back the next day. We stopped by three different hotels and all had to turn us away. One with a humble white piece of paper posted in the window with a childish scrawl: "No More Rooms." I tried to find a stable for us to stay in, but I wasn't pregnant so no one took that kind of sympathy on me. (ba-dum-bum-psh) Finally at 1:30 in the AM we decided to drive back home. I tried to keep the driver awake by telling him a scary story. But it just turned into a coming of age story for an eight-year-old cripple named Stumpy who slept with the camp director, Stacy, who tried to keep their romance a secret because everyone hated Stumpy, especially those damn kids who always toilet papered his shack in the woods. Poor Stumpy.
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